


Shout At Monsters

by bigmoneygator



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Gen, One Shot, Tumblr: jaegercon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 05:28:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigmoneygator/pseuds/bigmoneygator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were at each other’s throats, mostly. Chuck knew that Herc thought his heart was in the right place, but it didn’t do much to stem the resentment. There were a lot of raw emotions, roiling things that bubbled under the surface of their Drift. Chuck did not think about Mom. Herc did not think about Mom. So naturally, all the stray rabbits in their Drift were focused entirely and completely on Mom. </p><p>That was the tragedy of Hercules and Chuck Hansen: always continually disappointed in one another.</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p>A story in two parts about the family who communicate through their dog, Drift but can't speak, and scream at the end of the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shout At Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution to the Jaegercon Gift Exchange for tumblr user dr-kara. I tried to keep this short and sweet and simple, sort of the stray bits of Chuck's brain. The next part will definitely be written similarly. **Spoilers.** Obviously.
> 
> As usual, there is a [mix that goes along with this](http://8tracks.com/isladelmar/shout-at-monsters).

Chuck and his father communicated in a series of half sentences, an entire phonetic alphabet of grunts, and questions about Max. There was simply nothing else to say. Chuck was not a moron; he had snuck into offices to look at personnel files enough times to know that he and his father were being closely monitored. Chuck was volatile, and Herc had never had what it took to try and rein him in. The slightest sign of slipping combat would ground both of them.

Grow up half-wild, tucked into barracks and bunks and climbing Jaeger bones for fun, and maybe it’s no surprise Chuck is the way he is. 

Somewhere, in one of the files that Chuck stole and read while he was perched on the platform of Striker’s loading bay, it said that there was concern that growing up with the Drift in his head since before his brain had even stopped growing might have some negative effect on him. Like maybe his synapses weren’t making the connections they should have, like there were neural pathways being stunted by relying on someone else’s chemical messengers. 

Chuck loved his father, but sometimes only because he felt like he had to. With his disgraced uncle thrown out of the PPDC and the rest of his family dead, he didn’t have anyone else to love like that. There was Max, and Striker, and Dad. There were the teams of techs that took care of Striker. That was family. Chuck did not know much about a life beyond war, a life beyond being a Ranger, but he knew that sometimes you got the chance to cobble together a family from scraps. That was life on the ‘Dome.

In those files where they keep copies of brain scan readouts and hormone levels, kept careful track of a Ranger’s debriefs and attempted to decode their every move, the psychiatrists called Chuck arrogant. Defiant. Impulsive. There, in black ink on white paper, all of Chuck’s personality flaws and tics and quirks, insulting and all the more painful for their truth.

If he wouldn’t have gotten in trouble for nicking it in the first place, Chuck would have tossed the file into the sea. 

No one was going to tell him what he was.

-

Chuck would never tell a soul, but he used to live and breathe for Yancy Becket. Of course, his father knew. Chuck had his room on the ‘Dome plastered with posters of Gipsy. Everyone knew the Becket brothers were ace, but Yancy was the real rockstar. The natural. The prodigy. Chuck got to shake his hand in Manila, and it was enough to nearly make him swoon. Back when Dad thought that they could still talk, he would laugh and call it a crush. Chuck would snarl. Yancy was his hero. 

Dad was upset that his son never idolized him like that. That Chuck never wanted so badly to be like him, instead of Yancy Becket. He wouldn’t say a word, but Chuck could see it in the Drift. Chuck could sometimes feel it, the disappointment leaking through the cracks in their connection even when they weren’t in the Conn Pod. Chuck had been in a Jaeger for so long that he was used to the low-grade attachment to Dad’s brain that crackled in his ear like static, constant and consistent. 

They were at each other’s throats, mostly. Chuck knew that Herc thought his heart was in the right place, but it didn’t do much to stem the resentment. There were a lot of raw emotions, roiling things that bubbled under the surface of their Drift. Chuck did not think about Mom. Herc did not think about Mom. So naturally, all the stray rabbits in their Drift were focused entirely and completely on Mom. 

That was the tragedy of Hercules and Chuck Hansen: always continually disappointed in one another.

-

It occurs to Chuck, after his fist fight with Raleigh, that when he says that he likes his life he might not actually mean it. He wipes at the blood on his face, heated all the more for being reprimanded by his father, and it hits him in much the same way as Raleigh’s fist. He leans over the sink in his bathroom, gripping the edges, swallowing spit. 

He’s a Ranger and he has been since he was fifteen years old. This is everything he’s known. It’s not about living through the attack on the Breach so he can keep doing _this_. He wants to live so badly so that maybe, just maybe, he can wake up one morning and have nothing to do except watch television and read a book. Maybe one day he can be normal.

He is _tired_ , oh so tired deep in his bones. He doesn’t feel twenty-one. Jesus, he wants to live through this mission so he can actually _live_. 

The thought is terrifying. Chuck doesn’t know what else to do, what else to feel. He curls up on his bunk with Max, blinking back tears. It occurs to him that he’s just a kid.

He’s just a kid, shouting at monsters. No one taught him any different.

-

Chuck’s never seen a Kaiju so close before. He didn’t realize they were so ugly. Shooting a giant monster with flare guns is the most bogan thing he’s ever done. Forget killing snakes and spiders with shovels and tennis rackets. He shot a Kaiju in the eye with a flare gun. It was one of Dad’s finest moments, and even Chuck could admit that.

He couldn’t hold back the whoop of joy that escaped his throat when Gipsy dropped down into the bay. Still a kid. Still a fan. He leapt with one fist in the air.

“Come on Gipsy!” he screamed, throat raw. “Kick it’s ass!”

It wasn’t his old hero riding shotgun up there, not anymore. But it sure was nice to see her going. Dad might’ve been hurt, but he elbowed Chuck as they watched the fight.

“Pretty damn impressive, innit?” Dad said.

Chuck swallowed over the lump of guilt in his throat. He could learn a thing or two about respect from Dad. On a good day, the best words to describe Chuck were along the lines of “headstrong little shit”. Dad would know, the next time they drifted, that Chuck was sorry about all that. Dad would know that there was a tiny, small piece of Chuck that maybe started to forgive him. Just a little.

-

Chuck is petrified nearly frozen. 

Maybe if there was more time.

Stupid thought.

Maybe if he wasn’t so sure he was going to die.

Less stupid, but just as unconstructive. 

He doesn’t want to die. He really doesn’t. Not when he only just realized what winning and staying alive might mean. Pentecost allows him the dignity of not saying a word as he cries, breaths coming shallow and ragged, snot streaming out of his nose. This has been his life for nearly as long as he can remember and that life is about to come to an abrupt and ugly end. 

Dad’s not going to be there. That would be one thing. It’s been a fear of Chuck’s since the first Kaiju attack in Australia, to die trapped and apart from his family. At least if Dad was there . . . maybe it wouldn’t be so scary. There were worse ways to die than with a man like Herc at your side.

Chuck weeps like he wept the day his father dragged him out of Sydney without Mom. Chuck weeps like these his last precious minutes on Earth. 

And they are.

-

Pentecost has got a lot of last words.

Chuck has next to none. 

If he had his head on straight, he would say, “Sorry.” He would apologize to Dad. To Raleigh, too, for being a jerk and calling him the wrong name. He would apologize to anyone who would listen. He’d never been religious, not really. If he believed, he figured he would be going somewhere to be punished for arrogance and conceit. But he’s truly repentant.

That has to count for something.

“It’s been an honor, sir,” Chuck says.

Stacker nods. 

Chuck’s last few conscious thoughts are about how much he’ll miss Max, and whether or not he’ll get to see Mom.


End file.
